Falling Stars
by southerncharm22
Summary: Just a little bit more to get me through this, I'm hooked on you, I need a fix, I can't take it, Just one more hit, I promise I can deal with it, I'll handle it, quit it, Just one more time... DarkAngsty!TrevorEmily Rated: M for sexual situations


Title: Fallen Stars (Addicted)

Rating: M

Summary: Could possibly be a companion piece to "Hanging the Moon" but could also stand alone? Warning: If you really liked "Hanging the Moon" you'll most likely not like this fic.

_Did I truly do the things that you've described? They must hate me, every single one. It just sickens them, what I consider fun._

_But all I could do was close my eyes, And cross my heart and hope to die, Cause you don't fucking listen, When I'm around. The least you could do is take it back, All the vicious remarks and verbal attacks,_

_Cause I can't fucking stand it. When you're around. (Motion City Soundtrack "When You're Around")_

Disclaimer: Not mine. Also summary lyrics by Kelly Clarkson.

* * *

I shut my cell-phone and park my mom's car outside of _his_ house. She's studying with Spacey tonight. She's failing half her classes. She doesn't care. Her dad doesn't either.

I'm not sure he's noticed any of the changes in her. He's been... _preoccupied. _Yeah, preoccupied would probably be the best way to describe what he's been doing.

It all started when her parents divorced. There was no trial separation or tearful goodbye. It was more like an expensive pile of burned suits and an impaled prized nine-iron through a front windshield. I'm not sure what happened and she's never told me, but I have my suspicions and I keep them to myself. But apparently the Davis's weren't as perfect as they pretended to be.

It was the second week into January, the first week after her mom had taken her brother and left, that she came to me. On reflection it was by accident I suppose. I was in the right place at the right time.

Oddly enough, we were at the same party. How that happened, I'm still not quiet sure? But my attendance involved my stepsister's visit and her inability to sit quietly at home or not attract the attention of every male she encountered.

My first experience with alcohol had been a humiliating one. I still try to avoid it when I can. However as I sat on the porch steps of some random classmates house I couldn't help but want something to distract me from the bitter hum that had been my thoughts.

It had been unbearably cold. I hadn't cared. I had my coat and my slowly growing anger to keep me warm. I had sat alone for nearly half-an-hour before someone had finally decided to brave the frigid air. She sat beside me, her denim-clad thigh brushing mine, and sighed. My entire body had suddenly felt warm.

"Hey Trevor," she'd greeted, the smell of alcohol mixing with her girly perfume.

I had looked at her beside me with a skeptical eye. She'd never given me any reason not to be cynical.

"Emily," I had replied.

Our conversation had been mostly trivial. The kind held between a miserable designated driver and someone who was two or three drinks away from being unconscious.

She may have been three sheets to the wind but she knew what she was doing. She had been well aware. She had steered the conversation, put her hands where she needed, asked the right questions, and gotten what she wanted from me. She had gotten her ego boost.

She had tasted like she'd smelled. Bitter. I hadn't minded as long as I got to keep kissing her. Guilt had screamed at me to stop. She had been drunk. She was going to regret this tomorrow. I was going to regret it. I was going to regret taking advantage of a drunk girl so I hadn't touched her back. I had dug my fingernails into my palms and had forced my hands to stay in my lap. Despite her teasing fingers at my belt-loops, we had stopped at kissing.

I had been right. Monday at school I had found a piece of paper wedged between the vent slats at my locker. It had been from her. It had been an apology.

I still have it. It's stored somewhere in my room with the other dozen or so apologies she's written me since then.

The next time she'd been less subtle.

She'd called me. I don't know how it was that she had gotten my number, but I didn't ask. Even as I had pulled in-front of her house, into the space her dad should have been parked, I wasn't sure what I was doing there.

Her dad had been out, but according to town gossip that was nothing new.

She had answered the door in clothes she'd never worn to school and it had been clear to me what she wanted. Despite the little voice screaming at me in the back of my head, I had been willing to give it to her.

I had wanted to go slow, to take in every detail, to print to mind what the curve of her waist had looked like, but it had been a blur. She had made sure of that. I still resent her for stealing it.

I had no right to. It hadn't been my first time and from the way she had touched me it hadn't been hers either.

I don't know why I go every time she calls. It's sick really. It's sick and it's degrading.

I'd like to think that I couldn't stop, but I know I could. I could tell her no. It wouldn't be easy when she has wiggled herself between me and the steering wheel, when she has herself pressed against my hips, when the hem of her skirt is around her waist, when she's pulling at the buckle of my belt and making my eyes nearly cross at the feel. I can tell her no. I hate myself for not saying it; for knowing I can and staying silent.

I'm letting her turn me into someone I don't like. Someone I almost hate.

Two years ago I would have never let anyone treat me the way that she does. I would have never let myself be treated so . . . Callously. She can be callous. Behind her bubble-gum lip-gloss and pseudo sunny smile she can be a complete bitch.

I want to tell her so, but sometimes she cries and I hate myself for having thought bad things about her at all. Her dark eyes start to water and I can only hold her against me as she gets out whatever it is she needs to. She never talks her feelings out at least not with me. She uses her body to do that. She uses _me_ to do that. I'm not stupid. I'm pathetic.

We never go to my house or anywhere that could be considered a proper date atmosphere, she doesn't want to be recognized. She doesn't like me driving my car to pick her up or when she wants me to come over when her father has another 'company trip'. I won't deny that it hurts, but it doesn't stop me from doing as she likes.

There's no getting around it. She's hurting too.

I can feel it like a jab to the solar plexis.

She tempts me into the backseat or onto her bed and I follow her like the dog I've let her turn me into. Her lips tug on my earlobe, teeth scraping my little diamond stud, and her warm breath coming out erratically against my cheek. She always takes the lead; always on top; always in charge. It's like I'm the only thing she can control, the only thing that she can rely on.

She looks down at me, her dark eyes already shining. She's silently pleading with me to help her. It's like she's drowning. She's drowning and I'm the only one with the lifeboat, the only one that can pull her out of the water to breathe for just a minute. She's lost in the desert and I'm the only one with the watering can. She needs a hero and she thinks I am because she can see that I want to be.

But I'm not. I'm not saving her. I'm just a mirage. Something giving her false hope; giving her something to cling onto until the next wave pushes her back under; giving her saltwater instead of salvation and making her need more.

Sometimes I want to hit something. Sometimes I want to cry. I can't save her. I can't save anybody.

She'll move like we always do, her body reacting to the simple, her mind somewhere more complicated.

I'll try to hug her, hold her close as the first wave comes crashing down around her, but she'll push me away. I can't help myself. I want to help. I'll reach for her again and she'll let me. She'll be shaking, her muscles still in spasms from what she'll have made it do, from what she'll have taken from mine. Too soon, I'll feel that familiar tightness in my back and suddenly the world will spin and I won't catch my breath. We'll only sit like that for a moment, before she'll distance herself from me, again.

It's something I've come to live with.

Turning off the ignition, I watch _his_ front door. She was studying with Casey tonight. I sigh. She'd told me she'll be out in five. It's already been ten minutes. I'll wait. I always do.

When you're someone's dirty little secret, you learn to enjoy every second you have with them.

THE END...

* * *

Let me know what you think? Good? Terrible? So-so? 


End file.
